THAT'S COMMUNICATION
by sparveriusx
Summary: A tragedy befalls UA during Aizawa's first year teaching, and he struggles to come to terms with his shortcomings in the aftermath. (Or, how Aizawa comes to have Class 1A.) [Erasermic, M]


(1. AIZAWA)

The cramped office at the back of the department store is almost offensively kitschy. Every inch of wallspace is coated in photographs and fabric samples, cutouts from fashion magazines and multicolored invoices; the enormous wall calendar is bursting with scribbles done in glittering rainbow gel pen. At the desk in front of him, the pinstripe-clad manager whose name Aizawa has already forgotten takes a sip out of his venti caramel macchiato, fluffs up his pompadour, and adjusts his horn-rimmed glasses with expert precision. He picks up Aizawa's resume.

"Shouta Aizawa, graduated with honors from UA High School's hero course…pro hero for seven years, directly assisted the police with over 300 documented arrests, not to mention countless other instances of aid…returned to UA as faculty last year…"

The lights give a sickly fluorescent wobble. Aizawa's head throbs magnificently.

"Aizawa-san." The man hesitates as he sets the resume back down on the desk. His eyes flicker doubtfully over Aizawa's matted hair and his grimy, threadbare shirt. "What—what do you think, in your opinion, would make you a superstar sales associate at Fabric World?"

Aizawa blinks at him very slowly.

"I can operate a cash register," he says, at last. He doesn't mean to sound so unenthusiastic. He needs this job. Well, more specifically, he needs _a_ job—preferably something easy, that doesn't require a lot of critical thinking. This was the first place to get back to him, too, and he'd rather not go through the interview process more times than he has to.

"Oh," says the manager, clearly befuddled. "Well, um, that definitely is an important skill." He clears his throat again and switches gears. "Aizawa-san, this position is fundamentally team oriented. Here at Fabric World we depend on each other for the support we need to better both ourselves and our company. Would you say that you work well with others?"

Aizawa manages not to laugh out loud, but it's a close thing. He opens his mouth to answer, but whatever halfassed response he had planned is drowned out by the abrupt clanging of the fire alarm.

Aizawa winces. The jolt of adrenaline has upset his already queasy stomach. Oh, he's definitely going to puke. But something isn't right, he thinks. Besides the nausea, anyway. He can hear muffled shouting from beyond the office door, and what sounds like scattered screams. Oh, fuck, no. He stands up.

"Oh, damn," his interviewer says, standing up with a clatter and scrambling to the door. "I'm sorry. That's just Kazuaki, I bet he left another spoon in the microwave. Again, I'm so sorry. Won't take more than five minutes to sort out, just let me—"

"No," Aizawa rasps, cutting him off on his way to the door. "This is a robbery."

The man stares at him, uncomprehending. There is a tremendous crash of shattering glass on the other side of the door.

"You're being robbed," Aizawa clarifies. Of all the places for villains to turn up, it had to be at fucking Fabric World during his job interview. He still hasn't tried using his capture weapon, not since the attack at the train station, but there's no time for another self-doubt session right now.

He throws the door open. Fabric World is in pandemonium. What looks like a human-sized chameleon in a trench coat has burst through the door and is now slobbering all over the cash registers, and customers are huddled against the back wall, crouching in a pile of broken glass.

"This is a robbery," announces a woman who Aizawa hadn't previously seen, stepping out from behind the chameleon creature with a pistol in one white-gloved hand. She lowers her dark glasses, revealing a pair of glittering, bug-like, compound eyes.

"Oh, god!" says the store manager. "It's a robbery!"

"Stay back!" Aizawa snaps, throwing out his arm to prevent the man from diving macchiato-first into the store. "Don't be rash. I'll handle this."

"Everyone stay where you are," continues the bug-eyed villain. "I've cut off all communication to the outside. All your phones are jammed, so don't even try to call for help." She takes another step into the store, blocking off the doorway. "I want all your valuables in a pile in the middle of the floor here. Phones, watches, wallets, jewelry…"

Nobody moves, except for the manager, who surreptitiously unclasps his expensive watch and tosses it back into the office and out of sight.

"Sometime today, folks!" the bug-eyed villain shouts, waving her gun around. There is a flurry of frantic movement. "Shiromari! Get the registers!"

"DEVOUR," wails the chameleon. Its tongue lashes out at the nearest cash register. In less than half a second it swallows the entire thing whole, leaving behind an alarmingly large puddle of what Aizawa can only assume is corrosive saliva, based on the way the floor tiles are steaming.

Aizawa groans. He's not wearing his capture weapon—all he has is his regular old scarf. On the positive side of things, it looks like the villains haven't noticed the pair of them behind the door yet. "Stay here," he tells the manager, and dashes out into the open. The bug-eyed villain whirls around at the noise, momentarily startled. She sees him and scoffs.

"Who the hell is this?"

Aizawa seizes a roll of ribbon from the nearest shelf and unfurls it at the creature with all his strength. The fabric has a vastly different feel than his capture weapon, especially because it's decorated with little plastic daisies, but he manages to snag the chameleon's tail with it and drag it into his range. The chameleon shrieks, toppling into a display shelf full of tartan terrycloth, where it wriggles out of its trench coat and promptly vanishes. _Oh, shit,_ Aizawa thinks. Will erasure work on it if he doesn't know whether or not he's looking at it? Will erasure work at all on this thing?

"I told you not to move!" the bug-eyed villain screams. "Shiromari!"

Aizawa braces himself for the impact of a six-foot-tall invisible chameleon, but nothing comes. _Oh, shit,_ Aizawa thinks again. He sprints towards the trembling huddle of hostages just as the chameleon materializes again, poised and ready to strike. Aizawa throws his arms out, shielding the hostages, and activates his erasure. The chameleon shimmers slightly as his quirk hits it, and then a muted green pigment begins seeping into the creature's skin. This must be its original color, Aizawa thinks. Unfortunate.

A gunshot rings out across the store. Aizawa dives for the floor, unharmed but somewhat startled. He had almost forgotten the bug-eyed villain was there. She lowers her smoking pistol, looking unimpressed. "Take another step and all these innocent people get it," she says. "Now go and sit down with the rest."

 _Shit._ He's got to get away from the hostages. "You'll have to catch me first," Aizawa says. He tackles the chameleon to the ground. Its skin is covered in fine, glossy scales—slippery, but not quite frog-like in texture—and its long, sticky tongue stings like hell whenever it comes into contact with Aizawa's bare skin.

" _Shiromari, come back!"_ the bug-eyed villain shouts from somewhere behind them.

"DEVOUR," Shiromari screams. "DEVOUR."

It blinks, and its tongue surges out of its mouth, straight at Aizawa's face. Aizawa grits his teeth and rolls out of the way. He lands hard on all fours, and crawls behind the nearest shelf, cradling his left wrist. He's still recovering from the incident at the train station weeks ago—physically and mentally—and as the fight progresses it's dawning on him that he probably can't take both of them at once without his capture weapon.

Fine, then. He'll just have to use someone else's.

"I'll bet you didn't count on running into an underground hero here," Aizawa shouts at the bug-eyed villain.

She scoffs. "I recognize you now," she says. "Weren't you on the news a few weeks back? You look like total shit, so I couldn't tell until just now. Some hero you are."

Aizawa clenches his teeth and ignores her. "Attempting robbery in a two man team is always a risky move," he continues. Shiromari's tongue shoots across the store, knocking down rack upon rack of faux velvet. Aizawa dives out of the way.

"You're _both_ unprepared," Aizawa says, ducking to avoid Shiromari's tongue again. _Just like class,_ he tells himself. _It's just like teaching a class._ And as long as he keeps his eyes on Shiromari, this should work. "It's a shame. If you had actually thought through all the potential outcomes of your actions today, you might have made a bit more progress. All I have to do is stall you both until the police arrive."

"GET HIM!" the bug-eyed villain shouts.

"You haven't thought this through as a team, have you?" Aizawa calls to the bug-eyed villain, who now seems unwilling to waste more bullets trying to hit him. Shiromari, likewise, is still struggling to keep up. "You only chose this creature because you're convinced it will follow your orders, am I right?"

" _Just stop talking, already!"_ the bug-eyed villain shrieks. "Shiromari, hurry!"

"If you're relying on such a creature for backup," Aizawa says, dodging Shiromari's tongue, "not to mention carrying a gun—" he skids to a halt in front of the bug-eyed villain. "You must lack confidence in your _own_ quirk. Your partner is more of a liability than an asset in close combat. Am I right?"

Shiromari turns. It sees Aizawa. Its cheeks puff up.

"SHIROMARI, NO!" cries the bug-eyed villain, but it's too late. With grim satisfaction Aizawa leaps into the air, and ends up performing a sort of ungainly split in order to avoid Shiromari's tongue one last time—but it works; the chameleon's tongue wraps five, eight, ten times around the bug-eyed villain's middle, before both villains overbalance and topple to the ground, landing in a pile of steaming fabric and broken glass.

Aizawa lands in a crouch, out of breath. There's a shard of glass sticking out of his palm, but whatever.

"Good god!" cries the manager, hopping from foot to foot somewhere in the wreckage behind him. "Dear lord! Christ almighty! Vera Wang! Alexander McQueen!"

Aizawa straightens up, panting. He can hear police sirens in the distance. Blood pounds in his ears. He feels sick. The sirens take on a rather fuzzy quality, as if they are coming from a badly-tuned radio. He remembers, with exhausting clarity, another day, different sirens, the cool dim floor of the train station against his cheek—he sees school uniforms in tatters, blood and brains and scattered carnage and broken glass and _attention: this is the final boarding call for the 4:40 bullet train to Okinawa,_ flashing blue and red lights, screaming, _screaming—_

"Well," says the manager abruptly, offering Aizawa his hand, "I don't know exactly how you did it, but it'd be ridiculous not to hire you now." He frowns. "Do you need to sit down? You look a little pale."

Aizawa shoves past him, clamping one hand over his mouth. He is vaguely aware of the manager shouting "OH NO, NO, PLEASE DON'T," but what on earth is he supposed to do, just will himself not to throw up? The nearest trash can is way out of his reach.

He does not get the job.

* * *

"You are not resigning," Hizashi insists to him over coffee the next morning. "You can't just _resign."_

Aizawa calmly sips his coffee. "Last time I checked, that decision wasn't up to you."

"Shouta, don't be ridiculous. You're a great teacher. Nedzu would never just—"

"I've already been over it with him. He agrees it would probably be best for me to take some time away from UA after…certain things."

"Oh," Hizashi says, looking uncharacteristically subdued.

"Actually," Aizawa says, "Nedzu was the one who suggested it. Said to take the rest of the semester off and see how I'm feeling afterwards."

Hizashi frowns up at him, biting his lip. Aizawa imagines swiping a credit card in the crease between his eyebrows.

"You'll come back, though, right?" Hizashi says, and as his voice wavers Aizawa feels an enormous pang of now-familiar guilt.

Aizawa sighs. "I don't know," he says, truthfully.

Hizashi fiddles with the yellow charm dangling from his phone for a while. All around them, happy couples are laughing and chattering. "Shouta," Hizashi says quietly, at last, "they were my students too."

"I _know_ ," Aizawa says.

"You don't have to shoulder all the blame. There's no point in taking it all on by yourself."

Aizawa holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Hizashi, I _know._ Whatever comforting thing you're about to tell me, I've already tried to tell myself a thousand times. Save it."

Hizashi clears his throat. "Listen," he says, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a moment before continuing. "This is going to blow over. The press won't hang onto it for much longer. I really hate to say it, but the only reason this whole thing is getting so much publicity is because it happened to UA students. No one's blaming you for what happened, Shouta. It's just sensationalism as usual."

"It's not like I can just _forget_ about what happened," Aizawa snaps. "There must have been some sort of leak within the school administration. The last time I tried to get into my apartment there were about thirty reporters outside. I had to go in through the back window just to get a phone charger."

"I'm not saying you should forget about what—" Hizashi blinks. He frowns. "What do you mean, the last time you tried to get into your apartment? When was the last time you were home?"

Aizawa clenches his jaw. _Ah._

"It's the most logical way of avoiding the media," he mumbles, and stands up to go get another cup of coffee.

"Hang on!" Hizashi catches him by the wrist. "Shouta, what the hell is going on?"

Aizawa swallows, suddenly painfully aware of his unkempt, knotted hair and ratty clothes. He hunches his shoulders, retreating a bit further into his scarf.

"You've just been—" Hizashi's voice dies in his throat. "You've just been sleeping on the streets? Jesus, Shouta, for how long?"

"Well, truthfully, I haven't been sleeping much at all," Aizawa says. "But it's been a nice reprieve either way. Reporters can't find you and ask you what you would have done differently to protect your students if you just look like some backalley junkie crawling around in a sleeping bag."

"Oh, my god," says Hizashi. "Shouta, go home. Go shower. Get some rest. _No,"_ he thunders, when Aizawa goes to pull a pile of change out of his pocket to pay for both of their coffees. He whips out his wallet. "Listen," he says, "please take care of yourself. Text me when you get home. I'll come over and beat up all those reporters for you, if you want. "

Aizawa smiles grimly. "I already decked one of them last week," he says, "but I appreciate your enthusiasm."

* * *

 _i'm home._

 _no reporters either. did u threaten them from afar_

 **perhaps**

 **nah shouta im jk i told you things would die down**

 **anyway thx for letting me know. now go and take that shower**

 _was it that bad_

 **look shouta i love you but im actually surprised they let you into starbucks**

As soon as Aizawa gets the water running and climbs into the shower, the full effect of the last few days hits him like a shopping cart full of paint cans. He hadn't realized how exhausted he was. His entire body aches, especially his left wrist, and the blisters on his heels are stinging like mad. Just lifting his arms above his head to wash his hair is almost too much. He sits down in the bathtub and lets the water run down his back for a while.

He shouldn't have let himself get so run down. Aizawa knows his limits. Ordinarily, he's a bit better at taking care of himself, and he's a little embarrassed at the state he's allowed his body to enter. Truth be told, though, he's just too tired to care very much. Sleeping is good for the body. He pulls on his pajamas and puts his wet hair up in a bun and drags himself to the couch. Once the blanket is up to his chin he's out.

* * *

(Ten

years

earlier,

Aizawa is fifteen and he's lying in the hospital bed, gingerly probing at the large bruise lining the crook of his elbow from the IV drip. Things could honestly be much worse. He's survived his surgery. And, at any rate, he's almost certainly one step closer to transferring out of General Studies. And he'll be out of the hospital by tomorrow morning. Tonight, maybe, if all goes well.

He refreshes his phone again. No new emails. No new text messages. He certainly isn't expecting a knock at the door. Nor is he expecting Yamada from the Hero Course to stroll into his room, looking as if he owns the place.

"HEYY!" Yamada says, making the hairs on the back of Aizawa's neck stand up. Yamada deposits his bookbag on the floor next to the bed, pops his collar, then licks his thumb and smooths back his eyebrows. "What rotten luck, huh? You win the entire Sports Festival and then get taken out by your own appendix? That's harsh, Shouta. Really harsh."

Aiwawa groans. It's too late now to pretend to be asleep. "I should have known you'd show up."

Yamada grins winningly, showing at least thirty teeth. He puts his hands on his hips. "That's what friends are for!" he declares. "I just wanted to make sure you were all r—"

"Yamada," Aizawa cuts in. "We are not friends. Keep it up and I'll put you in a headlock again."

Yamada throws back his head and laughs. "Oh, man, I almost had my appendix out in elementary school," he says, completely undeterred. "It was scary as hell. I remember they had to give me one of those giant lollipops to keep me from screaming in the waiting room and blowing out everyone's eardrums."

Aizawa squints. "How exactly does one _almost_ have their appendix out, Yamada?"

Yamada visibly deflates. Even his hair starts to droop. "Oh," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "Um, well, it actually turned out there was nothing wrong with my appendix and I was just having severe indigestion. But, anyway—"

A laugh bursts abruptly out of Aizawa's throat. "Holy shit."

Yamada is smiling now too, a little sheepishly. "Yeah, exactly."

Aizawa goes back to looking at his phone. For once, Yamada falls silent. Then the noticeably bare bedside table seems to catch his eye. "No gifts, huh?" he says, pulling up a chair and flopping into it. "Family couldn't come?"

Aizawa should have seen the question coming. It still catches him off guard, though, and he can barely find the mental fortitude to come up with a response, let alone a sarcastic one. "No."

Yamada glances up at him, eyes wide and curious behind his glasses. "That's too bad, Shouta, I think you're great!"

"It's just as well," Aizawa mutters. "I hate people fussing over me."

"Hey, you kicked my ass at the Sports Festival," Yamada says. "It's totally personal now. You're stuck with me. I'll fuss over you for as long as I want, thank you very much."

"Huh," Aizawa says. "Maybe I should un-kick your ass, or something."

"You may have kicked my ass," Yamada says, lowering his glasses and wiggling his eyebrows with what Aizawa can only assume is supposed to be practiced charm, "but wait till you play me in DDR." He slides back in his chair, smugly crossing his arms over his chest. "We'll see who's the best then."

Aizawa steeples his fingers, staring up at Yamada grimly. "I guess we will."

"But only if I can take you to dinner too," Yamada blurts out, then claps his hands over his mouth.

Aizawa huffs out a laugh and reaches for his phone. "Sure."

Yamada's ear-splitting "REALLY?" nearly causes Aizawa's phone to fly out of his hands.

"Don't look so surprised," Aizawa says, after he's collected himself. "I'm not completely heartless."

"Oh," Yamada says breathlessly. "I, um, I didn't expect you to say yes. Wow. Okay. Uh—Friday night?"

"Okay," Aizawa says.

"Oh, before I forget," Yamada says, reaching into his bookbag and pulling out a plush cat shaped like a piece of sushi. "I got you this at the gift shop. You like cats, right?"

Aizawa raises an eyebrow at it. "I'm not terribly fond of tuna," he says. He accepts it anyway, with a tiny smile.)

* * *

A buzzing sound next to his left ear jolts Aizawa awake.

 **can i come over**

Aizawa stares blearily at his phone. It's close to midnight. Some old black and white rerun is blaring away on the television behind him. He runs his hands through his hair, neatens up his bun, and rolls over on the couch. Before he can respond, Hizashi texts him again.

 **there's a centipede in my kitchen sink**

 **i trapped it under a bowl but it's still alive and i can hear it crawling around ew ew ew gross**

 **please help me**

 **shouta there are so many legs**

Aizawa smiles.

 _would u rather deal with roaches? bc my apt has roaches everywhere u know._

 **PLEASE I DONT WANT 2 BE ALONE WITH THE CENTIPEDE :( :( :( :(**

Aizawa lets Hizashi marinate for a while. He idly folds up his blanket and shoves it aside on the couch before picking up his phone again.

 _ok fine_

 _bring dinner_

 **YOU GOT IT!**

 **what do you want**

 _anything hot that isn't coffee_

 **i'm omw ;)**

 **and pretty damn hot if i do say so myself**

* * *

(2. HIZASHI)

" _Driving through the city cuz the trains have stopped going,"_ Hizashi sings absentmindedly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, _"Think it's gonna rain but at least it's not snowing, eight minutes to one and the wind keeps on blowing—_ HEY, ASSHOLE! STAY IN YOUR LANE! _Slamming on the brakes but my rhymes are still flowing—"_

He quickly glances at the bag of takeout in the passenger seat to make sure it's still buckled in and upright. It would be a shame to have waited over twenty minutes for good udon only to pour it onto his dashboard while running a red light at one in the morning.

Honestly, Hizashi loves driving into downtown Tokyo at night. It sounds stupid, but it makes him feel like he's a part of something bigger than himself, somehow, with all the glittering lights and the passing cars. He's been doing a lot of night driving recently, too, ever since the radio station finally relented and gave him his own parking spot.

It starts to rain as Hizashi approaches his destination. He passes a glowing red sign for some corner store, blurred from the water droplets on his windshield. Predictably, it reminds him of Shouta.

God, Shouta. He knows Shouta will pull through. He always has. But in the meantime, he can't help it. His mind has nowhere else to turn. _Everything_ reminds him of Shouta these days. This generalized worry for Shouta is taking up every spare waking moment of Hizashi's _life_.

"… _Singing cuz I'm nervous and I don't know what to doooooo!"_

Especially because he _totally_ told Shouta that he loved him this morning, even if it was just through text. Shouta must have thought he was joking, too, because he didn't even react. Hizashi can't get it off his mind.

" _I don't wanna think about it anymore!"_ he sings. _"YEAH!"_

Parking within a reasonable distance of Shouta's apartment is always a nightmare, especially in the rain. Hizashi locks his car, turns up the collar of his jacket, sprints across the street, stomps up three flights of stairs, and throws the door to Shouta's apartment open.

"I brought udon," Hizashi says, bustling into Shouta's kitchen and setting the bag of takeout down on the counter.

Shouta looks up from his laptop. His hair is up in a bun. It looks very cute. "Thanks," he says. "How's the centipede situation?"

Hizashi groans. "I had just gotten out of the _shower_ when I found it," he says with a shiver. "Little bastard. You try fighting a centipede in the nude." (And _there's_ an image, he thinks privately, before he can stop himself.)

Shouta winces. "I'd really rather not."

Hizashi shoves the takeout across the table at him. "Eat," he urges.

"Yeah, yeah," says Shouta, opening one of the containers and removing a pair of chopsticks from their paper sleeve. "You want any?"

"Yeah, all right," Hizashi says, popping the lid off the other container. They eat in silence for a while. Hizashi checks his phone. No news alerts, thankfully, although it looks like Nemuri has sent him some pictures of her new costume proposal that he is frankly too afraid to open.

"Do you want a drink?" Shouta says, abruptly abandoning his half-eaten udon. "I'm having one."

"Oh, sure," says Hizashi, biting his lip as he examines Shouta's calendar, which features a pair of sleeping kittens in a basket. Other than the calendar, there isn't a lot going on in Shouta's apartment. There's an old threadbare plushie up on top of one of the cupboards, next to a bottle of eye drops and a glass jar with one pen in it. "The usual."

Shouta walks over to the fridge and retrieves several bottles, then pulls two glasses out of the cupboard. He opens the freezer.

"Do you want ice? Oh, shit." Crushed ice rains down on the floor. Shouta surreptitiously kicks the shards under the fridge.

Hizashi smiles, biting his lip again, and tries not to think about how much he loves Shouta, and how worried about Shouta he's been recently, and how his stomach turns to knots whenever he sees Shouta having a hard time, and how good Shouta looks in his pajama pants with his hair up in a bun like that, unscrewing a bottle of gin with those insanely powerful arms—

Hizashi pulls out his phone again. This calls for direct action. He furiously texts Nemuri.

 _SHOUTA IS MORE PUNK THAN I WILL EVER BE AND HES NOT EVEN TRYING_

 _also nemuri what the hell. isn't the new costume supposed to be MORE functional than the last one_

 **hizashi dear, it's not my fault that you have no imagination. more importantly how's shou-chan**

 _i think he's doing better. looks like he actually slept today_

 _can't talk though i'm at his place_

 _i'll let you know how it goes_

While Shouta is still busy, Hizashi takes what he hopes is a subtle look at Shouta's laptop. He's got about thirty different tabs open on his browser: scans of police reports, the WebMD page on diplopia, a video called "Munchkin Cat Jumping," three different email accounts, a spreadsheet, an online calendar—

"What are you doing?" Shouta sets the two gin tonics down on the desk. Hizashi jumps.

"NOTHING," says Hizashi, unconvincingly. "I WAS NOT LOOKING THROUGH YOUR SEARCH HISTORY OR ANYTHING WEIRD LIKE THAT."

Shouta gives him a very unimpressed stare over the rim of his glass.

"What was all that, anyway?" Hizashi says, as Shouta slowly closes his laptop and sets it aside.

"Notes, mostly," Shouta says, taking a sip of his drink. "I slept for over twelve hours. Lots to catch up on."

Hizashi nods. "Still in contact with Nedzu these days?"

"Of course I am," says Shouta. "It's not like I'm permanently retired. I just resigned. I'm trying to ease myself back into the habit of doing regular patrols."

"Let me know if you ever want me to come along," Hizashi says. "I've always thought we should pair up more. We'd be an amazing team, wouldn't we? Why don't we do it more often?"

Aizawa smiles a very toothy smile. "Because the last time we tried it, you ended up in the hospital for three months with a shattered coccyx?"

Hizashi scratches at the back of his neck, grinning. "Oh, right."

His visit to Shouta is going quite well, Hizashi notes as they finish their udon and go to clean up their drinks. Maybe _too_ well. He watches Shouta roll up his sleeves and run cold water over his glass, enthralled. Belatedly, he realizes that Shouta is holding out his hand.

"I'll get the dishes," Shouta says, reaching unsuccessfully for Hizashi's glass.

Hizashi shakes himself. "No, no," he says. "Let me."

They fight briefly for control of the sink, during which time Aizawa flicks a lot of water into Hizashi's eyes and Hizashi dumps the remainder of his ice down the back of Shouta's shirt. Shouta draws back, cursing, but also (to Hizashi's intense delight) holding back peals of hoarse laughter. _He's so cute._

As he finishes washing up, a small rectangular object on top of the kitchen cabinet catches Hizashi's eye. He reaches up and grabs it, his eyes lighting up as he realizes what he's holding. "Is this a _cassette player?"_ he says, incredulous. "Shouta, do you realize what century we're in?" Shouta opens his mouth, presumably to chew Hizashi out for going through his sparse belongings, but Hizashi's not done. "What's even in here, anyway?" he says, opening the thing up. "What on earth are you listening to that requires a—"

Hizashi stops dead. He almost falls over. "Is this—" his voice cracks about five times before disappearing completely. He swallows with difficulty. His tongue seems to have swelled to roughly the size of Mongolia. "Is this the mixtape I gave you back after the Sports Festival second year?" he squeaks, hardly daring to believe it.

Shouta dives over the kitchen table and makes a wild lunge for it, trying to knock it out of his hands, but Hizashi dodges easily.

"You liar!" Hizashi shouts, cackling as he continues to evade Shouta's uncharacteristically illogical frontal attacks. "You totally did listen to it more than once! Which song was your favorite? Did you like the bonus tracks? How was the—?"

Hizashi's voice abruptly vanishes. Shouta's hair is floating in long black waves around his face. His eyes are glowing a particularly poisonous shade of red.

 _Okay, okay, I'll take the hint,_ Hizashi signs, and carefully places the tape back into the cassette player and puts the whole thing back up on top of the cabinet where it belongs.

"Hizashi," Shouta says, giving an almighty sigh as he deactivates his erasure, "you just came over here to check on me, didn't you?"

Hizashi rolls his eyes as he puts the two glasses onto the rack to dry. _"Excellent_ deduction, sir. That's what friends are for."

Shouta smiles down at the floor. "Was there really a centipede?"

"YES," Hizashi shrieks, slamming his hand down on the table. "AND IT WAS HUGE."

Shouta puts his chin in his hand. "Hizashi," he says.

"Huh?"

"Thanks," Shouta says. "I'm glad you came."

Hizashi nods. "No problem," he says quickly, arranging his face into what he hopes is a look of polite benevolence. "Anytime. Really."

Shouta squints at him. "You're making that face."

Hizashi panics. He can feel himself blushing. "What face? What do you mean? This is my normal face. I always look like this. See? Completely normal." Oh, god, he must be magenta by now. His hands are flailing around out of his control. If he's not careful he'll slap Shouta upside the head and then everything will be over.

"Get ahold of yourself," Shouta says. "What is it?"

"Uhhhhhhh," Hizashi says, intelligently. "The thing is…well, I mean—this probably isn't the best time to say this, given everything that's been going on lately, but uhhhh…"

 _Fuck it,_ Hizashi decides firmly, and takes the plunge. He takes Shouta's hands and squeezes gently. It's a familiar gesture, one he's sure Shouta will recognize.

"I think you're amazing," Hizashi says. "I love you. Really, Shouta. Um, you know…" He coughs. His brain is starting to catch up with his mouth. "Romantically. Oh, god, what am I saying? You don't want to hear this right now. You're mad. I'm sorry. Just forget I said anything. I'll head out now, I'm—"

He stands up. He's still holding onto Shouta's hands. As he backs across the room, he almost yanks Shouta out of his chair by his fingers. As it happens, his palms are too sweaty to maintain a good grip, and instead they slide apart with a slippery noise that will haunt Hizashi's dreams for months.

"Wait," Shouta calls to him. Hizashi stops immediately. He holds his breath.

"I'm not mad," says Shouta at last, very slowly. "But I don't think I can talk about this right now." Hizashi watches his throat bob as he swallows. "Probably for a while."

"Right," Hizashi says. His throat is dry. His face feels extremely hot. "Right," he says again. "Thanks for the drink. And the company. I'll just—I'm going to go. Bye."

He leaves Shouta in his dim apartment, feeling like he's botched a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and ruined his most important friendship for good.

* * *

Aizawa sits in silence for what feels like hours after Hizashi leaves. Finally he stands up from his chair, cracks his back, and checks the time.

Only five minutes have passed. That seems wrong. He wonders why it feels like it's been such a long time since Hizashi was here. In the darkness behind him, the kitchen faucet makes a tiny _plink._ He hears a dog barking somewhere in the distance. In the other room, his clock ticks away.

It's so _quiet._ Not that Aizawa ordinarily minds the quiet. But somehow, tonight, the quietness feels empty. It feels… terrible, actually. While he was spending time camped out in the alley this past week, people just kept coming and going all night long. Being back in his apartment for the first night in a while is more jarring than he had expected it to be.

He misses Hizashi. He misses his messy bun and his stupid mustache and the wrinkle in between his eyebrows and the way his nose crinkles up when he's trying not to laugh. He misses Hizashi's constant chatter, and the way he bites his bottom lip, and his bizarrely big eyes, and—

Aizawa sighs. The sound is almost deafening in the silence.

He's sort of always known about Hizashi's feelings for him, partly because Hizashi possesses all the subtlety of a washing machine full of screaming rubber chickens. Not that he's ever _understood_ those feelings beyond a vague sense of bemused appreciation—why on earth would anyone be interested in _him_ romantically?—but still, he's quietly accepted that Hizashi's feelings are not going away anytime soon. But despite that, he knows that Hizashi would never do anything to make him feel uncomfortable, especially now that this whole romantic wild card is on the table and out in the open. And now that he's being forced to acknowledge Hizashi's feelings, he feels…confused? Disappointed? His chest hurts, a bit. _Now is not a good time,_ he tells himself. _Think about this logically. You are not ready for a relationship._ And, wait, why is he trying to convince himself to _not_ go for it? Wasn't that what he was already planning on doing?

Of course, now that Aizawa's gone and nixed any possibility of a potential relationship, Hizashi will probably stop coming around so often. Aizawa hopes that's not true. Hizashi is too obnoxiously persistent to let a little thing like this deter him from enjoying Aizawa's company. Right? _Right?_

He takes Hizashi's old mixtape down from on top of the cupboard and turns it over in his hands. The label is a little worn, but none of the tracks skip, and other than a tiny scratch on the side of the cassette, it's in near perfect condition.

 _Songs for Shouta_

 _By:_

 _Hizashi Yamada_

 _(a.k.a Present Mic, future BADASS Pro Hero)_

 _IF YOU ARE NOT SHOUTA AIZAWA, PUT THIS DOWN! THIS MIXTAPE IS NOT FOR YOU! That means you, Tensei! Stop looking through my desk, already! Anyway, Shouta, I wanted to give you something for our one year anniversary of us being friends! That's so exciting, right?! Here's to many more! I hope you enjoy the music. Let me know what you think, and let me know as soon as possible…._

Aizawa's chest hurts again.

He thinks he might love Hizashi. Maybe a lot. Maybe more than he's ever loved anybody before. Usually, on nights like this, listening to this silly old mixtape is enough to quell the loneliness for a while. But having Hizashi here, and then abruptly having him gone, makes him ache. He reaches for his phone.

 _do NOT mention this to anyone_

 _but_

 _i think i might have a crush on hizashi_

Nemuri's typing bubble appears within milliseconds.

 **awww eraser you're so cute. it's about time**

 _what does that mean_

 **shouta honey. ive been waiting for this exact text from you for over a decade**

 **i'm so proud of you!**

 _whatever. don't tell him._

 **of course not, darling**

 **where's the fun in that ;)**

Aizawa tosses his phone aside. He slides the mixtape into the cassette player and hits play. There's a tiny crackle of static, and then the familiar opening lyrics hit his ears.

 _If you change your mind,  
_ _I'm the first in line;  
_ _Honey, I'm still free,  
_ _Take a chance on me…_


End file.
